


Happy (not) Valentine's

by julidoesnotwrites (notjuli)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aromatic Character, Chocolate, Domestic Fluff, Family, Family Dynamics, Family Meals, Food, Gen, Internal Monologue, Non-Romantic Relationships, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjuli/pseuds/julidoesnotwrites
Summary: It's not Valentine's Day and John is up to something.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37
Collections: Sherlock Fandom VS 2020





	Happy (not) Valentine's

**Author's Note:**

> Same as always, this work is not beta-ed nor brit-picked and English is not my first language, so if you notice any errors please do leave a comment letting me know.

It was a drizzly Saturday mid February, and a chilly one at that; the temperature outside couldn't reach the second digit.

Inside 221B Baker Street the central heating was on, and in the sitting room sat one Sherlock Holmes, clad in blue pyjama bottoms and a gray and green striped jumper that was just a bit too short and showed a black t-shirt underneath, and one Rosie Watson, wearing red fuzzy pyjama bottoms and a long sleeved t-shirt in "Not just purple, lilac purple Daddy,  _ lilac  _ purple!" with a printed stamp of the little mermaid over her stomach.

It was quarter past eleven and they were just done with breakfast.

Rosie was laying down on the rug in front of the telly, half paying attention to it and half to her colouring book. On the rug with her lay; her toy dinosaur, a T-Rex named Roy, a gift from Santa (Uncle Greg) this past Christmas, her elephant plushie, almost as old as her, named Ellie, and her Art Bucket, as she called it, a rectangular plastic bucket that was once home to a bunch of wooden blocks intended for babies to play with, but after half of those got lost and the other half were outgrown and later donated, it was now filled with crayons and pencils of all colours, as well as some paint brushes and non toxic glue. (The paint was no longer stored in the bucket, but in a secret location (on top of Sherlock's closet) and was to be used solely under adult supervision. There was an... accident.)

Sherlock sat on the desk by the window, half keeping an eye on Rosie, half checking his email and a hundred percent trying to ignore the sixth rerun this week of this one episode of this one kids show that was currently playing in the telly. He had to admit that the show wasn't half bad, he hadn't seen it in its entirety, but the few episodes he'd seen dealt with important topics in a fairly good way. Rosie probably couldn't understand it all that much yet, she wasn't even five yet, but it was ok. The fact that it was the sixth rerun just this week was the problem, but what a pleasant problem to have, in comparison, right?

To be fair, he hadn't been out much this week, and it was probably starting to get to him.

Monday evening he'd wrapped up a case that'd taken most of the weekend -it wasn't all too interesting but it wasn't all too bad either-, and after that he had only gone out further than the block on Tuesday afternoon, to pick up Rosie from the nursery at three and a small walk through the park on the way back home.

It had also rained all week after that, and John could make it on time to pick her up, so he hadn't needed to go out, other than to the shops at the end of the block on Thursday because it was his turn to do so.

John, on the other hand, went to work every day, Tuesday to Friday, eight to two thirty, as he did every week. He would go to work in the mornings and spend the evenings with Rosie, as well as his weekends and Mondays. He was compelled to spend as much time with her as he could. When there was a case in which he was needed he would still help, of course he would, but only if a) there was someone to mind Rosie while he was occupied and b) he had to be back home for her bedtime kiss. Those were the only two conditions he'd put, as well as not getting killed. Not him nor Sherlock were to be killed, that one was another condition, but a pre-existing one. Now it was just... more explicitly stated, and more carefully considered and followed.

As for Sherlock and his view of The Work, that had changed as well, but right now he wasn't focusing on that. His thoughts, actually, were on John's schedule at the moment. John's schedule and the fact that there was absolutely no reason at all for him not to be home on a Saturday at almost noon, and not on this particular Saturday either. Sherlock couldn't find a reason why John would've gone out this morning. There was nothing missing from the shops, there was food stocked for every meal for at least two days, he wasn't downstairs with Mrs. Hudson and he'd left before either him or Rosie woke up.  _ And  _ he missed Saturday breakfast and that was just not right.

It had become a bit of a tradition since before Rosie could talk more than a few words, to have breakfast together on Saturdays. It started just a few months after John had moved back in; after being up all night with a fuzzy Rosie that refused to sleep, when the sun came up, late as it did in December, John had simply placed her in Sherlock's arms where he sat on the sofa and went to make breakfast without a word. She had finally calmed down, and Sherlock held her, sleepy as he was, with his dear life, studying her like the incredible creature she was. He was wrapped around her little finger, even back then. John made tea, and toast, and grabbed two apples for them, and prepared Rosie her bottle and some apple mash, and took it all to the sitting room. And they ate and drank and fed her, and finally,  _ finally,  _ as Sherlock rocked her and drank his last sip of tea, she finally fell asleep. They didn't move, they didn't talk, they barely even breathed. They stayed there, sitting next to each other in comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of London lazily waking up, the smell of tea and apple and burnt toast lingering and the taste of those still on their mouths, the weak December sun filtering in through the windows a little bit more with each passing minute, feeling the couch firm behind them, their tights touching, feeling Rosie on Sherlock's chest, both looking at her there and tracking her little chest going up and down with her soft breaths, both aware of her whole being going up and down, in rhythm with Sherlock's own chest doing so, both unable to look away.

They ended up falling asleep there, at some point, which considering the calm that had washed over them and the fact that they hadn't slept in over thirty five hours, it was pretty understandable. Mrs. Hudson found them there, curled up together on the couch, later that morning, and had wasted no time getting her camera and snapping picture after picture of the scene. Two weeks later, John spotted one framed in her kitchen. In less than a month they had a framed copy on the mantle next to Billy the skull.

It didn't immediately become a thing, but a few weeks later Christmas Eve was on a Saturday, and they didn't have any plans until the evening. They just were both awake as well as Rosie, so why wouldn't they have breakfast together? And two weeks later, the day after Sherlock's birthday, John woke him up by placing Rosie on his bed and letting her crawl all over him while he went to make breakfast. And if the face Sherlock was wearing when he came into the kitchen, carrying Rosie with him, was the most adorably annoyed and plain  _ soft  _ a person could possibly look, well, John tried not to think too much about it. But it just kept coming back to him, that face and how much raw happiness there was in it, something he'd never seen on Sherlock before and- and. And he couldn't stop himself. And he didn't want to stop either. And Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He really didn't seem to mind. So John just... kept doing it. He would get up on Saturdays, change Rosie's nappy and drop her onto Sherlock to go make breakfast for them all. And Sherlock would keep coming out of his room with  _ that face,  _ and the annoyance started to show less and less and it seemed like he was expecting it, and then time kept passing and Rosie kept growing and then she would not only crawl over him but talk to him, and not the baby blable that she used to, but words and more words stuck together to make quasi sentences, that were not correct, necessarily (or, at all), but understandable and it was fantastic, and then she could walk, so John would take her downstairs and place her on the floor and open Sherlock's door for her and watched her climb up to the bed all by herself and he would then turn and go plop the kettle with biggest of grins on his face.

And more recently, she could climb down the stairs. She was still technically not allowed to do so by herself, but she could and they knew she could and she knew it too. And this morning she'd climbed into his bed and woke him up telling him how she'd gone down the stairs all by herself because Daddy wasn't there but she did it anyways and she was hungry now and she wanted "the good toast", which is what she called French toast "because is yummy toast and the other is boring toast Daddy."

So now, a glass of milk for her, a cup of tea for him, a glass of orange juice and French toast for them both later, they sat, him on his desk, her on the rug by the telly, and Sherlock still had no idea where John was not why had he left.

It was not the end of the world that he'd missed Saturday breakfast, it really wasn't, but it was weird that he'd did and he hadn't even told Sherlock where he'd gone. Hell, he hadn't even waited for him to be awake to leave, nor Rosie. If anyone missed Saturday breakfast, more often than not it was Sherlock, either because he was up early on a case, or because he'd come back home late on Friday night (after working a case) and John knew to leave him sleep then. There were a few times where they were both absent and she'd have breakfast with Mrs. H., who'd always make her cookies if it was a Saturday, or when breakfast consisted of milk and toast on her bed when she was sick, and John and Sherlock would have tea and plain toast, if anything at all, so busy as they were fussing around her as every time she got sick.

But today. Today John should've been home.

Sherlock realised that twenty minutes had gone by when he heard the end credits song of the show on the telly roll on, and that he'd spent twenty minutes worrying the issue and he still had no idea where John was.

He'd checked his phone during breakfast and there had been no messages from John. He'd sent one; "Where are you? You ok? -SH." sent at 10:41 am.

He hadn't heard any text alerts go off, but he had spaced out for almost twenty minutes, so he decided to check again. There was a reply; "good. be home in 40 with lunch" received at 11:34 am.

Well then. That didn't clear much up. John had gone out, before Sherlock or Rosie had awaken, to who knows where, to do who knows what, who knows why, and he was "good" and coming back with lunch. Sherlock had to admit, he was a bit frustrated over all this, not knowing, being unable to deduce... John missing Saturday breakfast...

It was then that Rosie interrupted his thoughts. "Pee, Sheroo, pee." Right, pee. She was potty trained, and she was more often than not, getting through the night dry these days. She still asked and liked to have someone with her in the loo each time. It was fine, better than wetting herself. Sheroo was his nickname, leftover from when she couldn't call him other than 'eeooo'. She could say his full name now, could write it even, but she liked Sheroo, and he wasn't going to stop her. John found it hilarious anyways, and at least she called him Sherlock to others. He really didn't mind.

After a visit to the loo, when she was once again laying on her playmat in front of the telly, he checked the time and instinctively marched to the kitchen. Only to remember than John said he'd bring lunch, and walk back to the sitting room. He hadn't walked two steps into it when he heard it. His text message alert went off. His John text message alert went off, because of course he had a different sound for John, as well as a different vibration pattern, to be able to discern his messages (and calls) from others.

"tube 2 stops away. need help w the door" It read. Ok then. It still didn't clarify things. If anything, it added more questions. John couldn't get the door because his hands were full or because he'd broken one? Probably the first option, so then; full with what? Food, lunch. Just food? How much food was he bringing? What else did he have?

Questions, questions, more questions and very little information to draw answers from.

He went to stand by the window, to observe the street below and be on a lookout for John and when to open the door. He could probably deduce with much accuracy when John was doing to reach the door of 221 Baker Street, but he was missing a few key points of information, such as how full John's hands were, and how heavy was it what he carried, and what shoes was he wearing, and what trousers, and, and, and. Too little data. And it was a pointless exercise anyways, he could just stand here and wait fifteen minutes tops and he'd see John.

Eleven .76 minutes later John turned the corner and came into view. He had his old beaten backpack on and a handful of bags in each hand. Sherlock immediately recognised two of the bags, from Angelo's; one in each hand, the one in his left was considerably heavier than the one on the right, two big takeout containers on that one, versus a big one and two small ones in the other. Knowing both John and Angelo, in one of the small containers there was garlic bread and in the other tiramisú.

John looked up to the window where Sherlock was standing, caught his eye, and smirked. He then looked back at the road, to both sides, let a car pass and crossed the street.

Sherlock turned. "I'm going to help Daddy with the shop, Bee." And then just in case, he added, "Stay here." And he run down the stairs, keys in hand.

The yell of "Daddddyyyyyyy!" followed him, but he heard no little footsteps on the stairs.

He opened the door and John was already handing him the bags on his right hand. "Hullo, morning." He stepped in. Sherlock closed the door and reached for the rest of the bags. "God, yes, thank you," John said passing them over, and took off his backpack as well. He placed it on the floor and started tugging at his scarf and coat at the same time. Sherlock left him to it and started to ascend back upstairs, carrying the bags with him. He was halfway there when John called for him, "Hey, leave them on the table and don't check them! I'll do it in a minute."

Well, then...

He did as asked; he left the bags on the kitchen table without looking and went to wash his hands. John followed him mere moments after, but was intercepted by an almost-meter-high hugging machine two steps into the flat.

After hugs and kisses had been given, after John left his backpack on the floor by the staircase to the upstairs bedroom, after John washed his hands (he is a doctor, but first and foremost he is a hypochondriac and a germaphobe) (Sherlock honestly can't blame him) (and now Sherlock's constantly washing his hands as well, so...) and after a profound apology (“I'm so sorry I missed breakfast, Bee, but I had to go to the shops and I bought you something for later, I promise, you're not mad with me, are you?”) (and it being accepted and forgotten, “It's fine Daddy, I went down the stairs all alone! And I woke Sherloo and he made me the good toast and orange juice!”) John finally turned to Sherlock.

“I'll tell you later, I promise I'll tell you later, I just need you to wait two, three hours. Wait until nap time,” he nodded towards Rosie, back in the sitting room, “without spoiling anything and I'll tell you. Can you just... not deduce it until then?” He asked, looking up to Sherlock with an expression that could get him anything. Anything he wanted in this world or others, possible or not, John made this face and Sherlock would get it, do it, make it, whatever it was. Sherlock knew this; he knew that face and the power it had. He just hoped John didn't know it as well.

He agreed, clearly he agreed. John would tell him where he'd been and why, he just had to not deduce anything until nap time.

Two new inquiries arose within Sherlock's mind; why did John want him not to ‘spoil it’, implying a surprise or gift of some kind, and why wait until Rosie's nap time, implying them both alone.

Stop, stop, stop. Thoughts like that lead to deductions, or worse. No deductions right now. Lunch now. Angelo's, John brought Angelo's. Why would John buy lunch at Angelo's today, especially knowing that the fridge is full (of food)?

Stop. Stop!

Lunch.

He walked to the kitchen table, where John had got rid of all the bags but Angelo's (put some of them on the fridge and took the others upstairs to his bedroom- stop), and was taking containers out of those. Sherlock took one of the small containers, correctly deduced as the tiramisú, and placed it on the fridge. He then grabbed plates and when he turned towards the table again John was looking at him, doing a bad job at hiding a smirk. He rolled his eyes and proceeded to get cutlery and glasses, placing everything on the table in just the right way; Rosie's plastic plate, cup and fork on the head of the table, where her high chair used to be, and now it was just another kitchen chair like theirs, with a few cushions for extra height, back to the sitting room, with John and himself each on one side of her, facing each other; John with with his back to the kitchen and good view of both doors, and Sherlock was content to let him, if only inside their own home.

John turned to grab napkins and water then, leaving Sherlock to sort the food himself. Opening the containers he found a serving of garlic bread (obvious), a serving of plain gnocchi with béchamel sauce and cheese (for Rosie, and it would last her two or three meals if she didn't got bored of it and forced John to finish it before it went bad), a vegetarian lasagna (for John; he will take out the dry tomatoes and give them to Sherlock) and the spinach malfatti with asparagus sauce (for himself, and John will steal three of the five asparagus that come with). He served some of the gnocchi into Rosie's plate and called her to the table. He cut the lasagna and served half of it into John's plate (as John always did, even if he ended up eating all of it), and decided to forgive the plate entiery for himself, as eating from the container not only would be easier, but there would also be a dish less to clean later.

John helped Rosie to her chair, and Sherlock served water for the three of them, and they ate, and Rosie chatted about her drawing, and Sherlock chatted about an interesting email he received, and John chatted about a dog he saw in his outing that morning, and Sherlock made up deductions about it, and John laughed, and Rosie asked for a dog, and they ate, and Rosie finished all of her serving, and John ate most of the lasagna, and he gave Sherlock all of the dry tomatoes in it, and he stole three asparagus from Sherlock's plate, and he shared a few bites of lasagna with him, and accepted a malaffati in return, and Rosie shared a gnocchi with each of them, and they ate all of the garlic bread dipped in their sauces, and it was overall a really good meal, even if Rosie did almost drop her glass twice and they ended up so full they decided to do the dishes later and just lay on the couch for a while.

John decided to take his chair, letting the couch for Sherlock to lay in with his legs pulled up and Rosie to sit on the other end, paying as much attention as she could to the telly in the sleepy state that the food let her.

In the end, John dozed off before Rosie did. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the calm in the flat, with the telly as white noise and the reassuring knowledge that both Sherlock and his daughter (the two people that he loves the most in the world) (don't think of the other time he'd thought that phrase, don't think of it) were safe and sound (and happy, most importantly happy) on the couch, two feet from him.

Sherlock was engrossed on his phone doing who knows what, but paying close attention to both John's and Rosie's breathing, hoping that he didn't fall into deep sleep (because it'd be a pity to have to wake him) and waiting until she did. It was a thing that had originally surprised him; how much attention he paid to their breathing, even unconsciously, and even worse, how calming and reassuring he found them both. He became aware of it during the first spring with John and Rosie in the flat; the pollen had made her allergies act up (a trait inherited from Mary's side of the family, they assumed, even if she herself hadn't seem to have allergies) and she'd been with a stuffy nose for weeks by then, and he'd noticed during her nap that her breathing pattern was different, which made him realise that he knew what her usual breathing pattern during a nap sounded like, which in turn made him aware that he could tell not only most of  _ her  _ breathing patterns (as well as sleeping patterns, the sound of her different type of laughs and baby babbles), but also  _ John's  _ (as well as  _ his  _ sleeping patterns, every laugh he'd ever heard, categorized by cause, the undertones on his voice in different situations and their meaning, his different  _ smiles, oh god-  _ ). In the end, he'd reassured himself that it could become useful in a multitude of occasions and that well, he lived and spent most of his time with them, it made sense, in the same way it made sense he could recognize Mrs. Hudson mood by the order in which she hoovered and how he could recognize over a dozen people (including but not limited to; every resident of 221 Baker Street, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mary, back when she was alive and Mummy and Daddy) by the sound of their steps on the staircase up to 221B (though to be fair, most of those he could recognize not only on the steps but just in general, and also not only but their footsteps).

He ended up lying there for almost two hours in the end, until he was sure Rosie was asleep and could be carried upstairs without disturbing her slumber. And he did just that, he carried her upstairs and laid her on her bed, placed Ellie the elephant next to her and tucked her in. He paused by the door before leaving, listening to her breathing, still calm and even, and couldn't resist turning to press a kiss on her forehead before going back downstairs.

He decided to give John a few more minutes to enjoy his nap and proceeded to clear the table and do the dishes. A thought made him pause.

You are the great Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, one of the brightest minds in existence, and you're doing the dishes?

Pathetic, something in him said. And he wanted to agree, it was a bit pathetic, but... but John would have to do them otherwise, and John was tired, and John always smiled when Sherlock helped with domestic household things like that, and that smile was a really soft one, and Sherlock was the only one who could ever make it appear and he would die before admitting it out loud, but he loves that smile and loves being the one to put it there.

So yeah, it's a bit pathetic, but he does the dishes anyways.

Dishes done and table clean, Sherlock returned to the sitting room and faced John. Rosie should stay asleep for a bit over an hour now, Sherlock estimated. Time to wake John.

John was a living contradiction, Sherlock already knew this, that was why he'd been originally so drawn to him when they'd just met. And it wasn't just in the soldier and doctor contradiction type of way, he was contradictory in every way possible; he liked tea in the mornings but avoided it in the afternoons, he liked the vanilla digestives best but always bought the chocolate ones, he wrote with his left hand but shoot with his right (but to be fair, he could shoot perfectly with either), he'd been out of the army for over ten years now and still had his army issued gun (after being confiscated multiple times, after being accessory to multiple crimes, after being the shooting gun of multiple murders), he was obsessively attentive to gun safety when the weapon was in others hands but while being on his own he'd pointed it to his own head more times that he remembered, he'd lived with Sherlock and not only had he stayed but he'd also come back, and with his child no less! He knew Sherlock, really knew Sherlock, better than anyone else, and he still seemed to like him. It was crazy. John Watson was crazy. And the most contradictory man alive.

So of course it would be fitting that his sleep would be a contradiction as well. He could fall asleep everywhere and anywhere he wanted to, sitting, standing, laying, on a bed or on the floor, no matter if it was too hot or freezing, no matter if there was too much noise or light, if John wanted to sleep he'd fall asleep. But he would also wake up. It wasn't that he'd be easily woken up, not really. Random lights or noises usually didn't wake him. It was more like he wasn't asleep at all, but rather paying attention to everything around him, and he would wake up when it was important. Sherlock had once found him asleep on the couch, ages ago, when they'd first lived together, and there was someone drilling in the building next door and it was really loud and annoying, and then Sherlock had been playing his violin, three feet away from the couch, and John had slept on like the dead, but when fifteen minutes later Sherlock had accidentally dropped a cup, John woke up immediately at the sound and run to the kitchen, paying no attention to the drilling still going on. It was possibly army training. Maybe.

Anyways, Sherlock didn't like waking John. John didn't sleep enough as it was, and... well, he just looked so calm when he slept, Sherlock didn't like being the one to interrupt that. So he took a minute, to just look at John, and appreciate the calm in his face.

No matter how much he didn't like doing it, Sherlock knew how to wake John easily. Times like today, it was as easy as placing a hand on his shoulder and calling his name a few times. So he did. Placed his right hand on John's left shoulder, over where a bullet had once been, and called his name, once, twice, a third time.

And John opened his eyes.

John's eyes quickly scanned everything in front of them, and they met Sherlock's. Their eyes locked together and stayed like that, a beat, a second beat, and then John blinked. His shoulders fell and he kept his eyes closed for a second. Sherlock gave John's shoulder a squeeze and he let go, taking a step back.

"How long-"

"Two hours, four minutes. I took Bee upstairs a while ago."

John opened his eyes at that. "Two hours? Why'd you let me sleep that much?"

"Was waiting 'til Bee fell asleep. Was busy. Thinking, the dishes." He shrugged embarrassed. John smiled at that.

"Well, thank you." He got up. "Time to show you what I got, then. Wait here," he said and hurried upstairs.

He returned with two bags and he grabbed his backpack as well, on his way to the kitchen. "Wait there, sit on the couch, don't spy," he smiled and closed the door to the kitchen. Well then. There were sounds of bags and things moving around, the fridge opening once and more bags and things on the table. A few moments later the door opened just a bit, and John's head popped through.

"Ok, well... I'm still sleepy, I didn't mean to fall asleep, sorry. But I had a thing prepared but it was stupid so I'm just gonna- yeah..." He opened the door a bit more and walked through, with both his hands behind his back, clearly hiding something. "Yeah, ok, so I'm just- yes. Yes, here," he pushed both his hands toward Sherlock, a plastic bag in one and a small black box in the other. 

Sherlock took them and before he could even look at them, John spoke again.

"Happy Valentine's day," he said.

And Sherlock froze.

_ Valentine's day. Saint Valentine's day or the Feast of Saint Valentine. Western Christian feast day in honour of the Valentinus saints, celebrated annually on February the 14th, nowadays recognized as a significant cultural, religious and commercial celebration of romance and romantic love in many regions over the world. Custom gift giving of flowers, chocolate, candy, cards, poetry and jewelry, among others. Information kept running through his mind, history and culture specifics from around the world, but he was stuck in something and everything else was background noise. Love. Romantic love. Gift giving. Romantic love. Romantic love, romantic love, romantic love, gift giving, John,  _ **_romantic love-_ **

He couldn't breathe. No. He wasn't breathing, he'd forgotten to. Inhale, deeply, hold it... exhale. Inhale... Exhale.

He couldn't see. His eyes were closed. When had he closed his eyes? He didn't want to open them yet.

What then?

Smell. Home. Home, he's in 221B. John. John's here. More things, confusing, too much.

Stop. Focus, something else.

Listen. Sound. John. John's voice. He's speaking. He sounds agitated. Speaking, what? Focus, focus on words, on John.

"...rlock, keep breathing, come on, you're doing great, in and out, can you hear me? Keep breathing, just like that. Can I touch you? Can you hear me?"

Hear. He can hear John, he is. Nod. Touch. Can John touch him? Ridiculous, yes. Nod. Breathing. He is breathing. Nod. Keep breathing. That's necessary to keep living. John told him he can't die. He needs to live. Breath. Keep breathing. Shoulder shoulder _ shouldershoulder. _ Touch. Shoulder. John. John asked to touch. John is touching. Hand. Heat. John. Breathe. Breathe.

"That's it Sherlock, keep breathing, you're doing great. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Breathe. Eyes? Eyes. No. Don't want to see John. Don't want John to see him like this. Infantile, it doesn't work like that. Love. He can't open his eyes. Shake.

"No? Ok, that's ok, don't worry. Keep breathing, yes? Keep breathing, can you feel my breath? Here, give me your hand."

Hand. John's hand, on his. Hand on John's hand on something soft. Wool. Jumper, John's jumper. Hand on John's hand and John's jumper. Breathe. Can't breathe. John's jumper. John's chest. Movement. Breathing, John's breathing. Breathe. Up, inhale, down, exhale. That's not the way it works. It goes the other way around. Chest expands to make space for air to filter out, contracts to let air flow in. Breathe. Breathing. John's breathing. Keep breathing. With John. Breathe with John.

"That's it, just like that, breathe with me. Keep doing that, you're good Sherlock."

Breathing. Respiratory system. John. John's a doctor. John must know the respiratory system. He's a good doctor. Was a good student. John. Army. He signed up to the army to pay for school. John in the army. Uniform. John in unif- No. Stop. Eyes. Open. John. Close. Touch. Touching John, John touching him. John. John Johnjohnjohn _ john. _ John. Breathe. John.

"Hey," John smiled. "You back with us?"

Breathe. Breathe. Back with us? Breathe.

"Are you ok? I mean... Are you better?"

Better. Nod.

"Can you talk?"

Talk. Voice. Probably. May sound wobbly. Won't try yet. Shrug. 

"Ok, good enough. Let me just- I'm going to get you water, ok? Can you stay here for a moment?"

Water, yes. Stay, yes. Water. Nod.

John gave his shoulder a squeeze and his arm a pat and got up. They lost contact. Sherlock's arm fell into his lap, motionless, lifeless, still tingling with heat of John's chest. When John disappeared into the kitchen Sherlock closed his eyes again. Cabinet, water, glass on countertop, water, more water, kettle turning on, footsteps. John, seven feet away, five, three, one. He crouches. It's bad for his knees. Cold, knee, cold, knee, hand, cold.

"Here."

Water, a glass. Grab. Cold. Hand, upwards. Drink. Drink, drink.

"Good, give me." Hand John hand hand John. "Can you look at me?"

Breathe. Eyes. John.

John's crouching in front of him, a hand on the couch next to Sherlock's leg and the other grabbing the glass. His eyes are fixed on Sherlock's and he wears a frown.

"You ok?"

Yes. Nod. Verbalise. "Yes."

"Good, ok." He gets up, leaves the glass on the coffee table and sits on the other end of the couch, body turning towards Sherlock. "I just- Do you want to talk about that?"

"About what?"

"Don't be like that Sherlock. How about you having a panic attack just now?"

_ Panic attack. Sudden period of intense fear that may include palpitations, sweating, shaking, numbness, shortness of breath, or a feeling that something bad will happen. Duration; seconds to hours. Causes include but are not limited to; panic disorders, anxiety disorders, PTSD, depression, multiple medical problems. Can be triggered or occur unexpectedly. Signs or symptoms are often described as; fear of dying or "heart attack" (heart palpitations and chest pain/tightness), nausea, flashing vision, faintness, numbness, heavy breathing, hyperventilation and dyspnea, loss of body control, tunnel vision, fight or flight response, trembling, hot and/or cold flashes, burning sensations, sweating, dizziness, light-headedness, sensation of choking, difficulties moving and derealization, as well as an anxiety increase that creates a positive feedback loop. _

Makes sense. He might have just had a panic attack. Ridiculous. But John said so, and John's a doctor. A good doctor. He knows Sherlock. And it fits. He had a panic attack.

He frowns. "I- I..."

"It's fine, just- You are feeling better, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, I would like to talk about it, but we can wait, if you'd rather lay down or something right now."

John looks concerned.

Sherlock doesn't want to wait.

"No, no. I'm fine. We can... We can talk."

"Well then." John eyed him doubtfully. "You do realize you just had a panic attack right?" Nod. "And do you know what triggered it?"

What indeed. Valentine's day? John mentioning Valentine's day? Romantic love. The idea of romantic love? The idea of John and romantic love. The idea of John feeling romantic love towards him. Maybe. Probably?

"I'm... not sure."

"I- Well... Do you..." He felt silent seeing the hesitation on Sherlock's face.

“I, well- Valentine's day is...”

Something clicked into place. “Oh. Oh!" Realisation. Then, panic. "Oh, oh, ok. No. No, no, no. What I meant- yes, happy Valentine's I guess, but it was more because it was yesterday and today you can buy chocolate really cheap everywhere... and that's what I did. And I mean- Valentine's. I meant happy Valentine's as a... As a thing you say y'know? Not- Not because... no. You- You thought I meant... You thought I meant it like-"

"No, I- I-" Why can't he talk properly?

"Shit. Shit I'm sorry. That's why you panicked? Because you thought I meant it romantically or something?"

He seemed unable to say words longer than two or three words, mumbling again, "I- I..."

"Shit, no, Sherlock. You know- You know that I... Well, I guess panic attacks are not really logical either. But- But you do know right? That I- That doesn't- That it's not like that, you know that right? And I'm saying this to reassure you, not myself, just for the record."

And it seemed true enough. John was fairly calm, and had been so through the whole exchange. Sherlock couldn't find a logical motive for him to be lying either.

"Ok," he nodded, "explain."

"What, like... the gift? Valentine's? Everything?" Nod. "Well, Valentine's is typically a romantic celebration but it doesn't have to be. In Rosie's class they made them exchange compliments with everyone, just as friends, classmates, whatever, they are barely even five yet. You never exchanged cards in class when you were a child? Probably not, right? Public school's too fancy for that." He smiled. "Me neither, to be fair. But well, kids often do. Exchange cards in class, or give out compliments, sometimes they'll make cards to take home to their parents or something. It's a thing. And even as adults, people often just gift things to their friends, or remind them of their friendship or things like that. It's mostly a thing girls do, with all that- You know, the whole patriarchy shite and affection being 'girly' or 'feminine' and all that. But it's still a thing.

"Anyways, I've never been much of a fan of the holiday myself, always too much pressure to find a partner the week before if you didn't have one, or to plan the perfect Valentine's if you already did. Bloody annoying if you ask me." He paused for a moment, seemingly lost in memory. "Anyways, yeah. It's a shit show. But for the next week or so you can find chocolate really cheap everywhere. So once when I was like fourteen Harry took me out on the fifteenth, and she took Dad's car and she must've been seventeen back then, and we drove to every shop in town and bought a bunch of chocolate for a ridiculous amount of money and we sat on the car listening to her shitty music and eating chocolate for hours. We got both a bit sick and in so much trouble afterwards, but it's one of my best memories I have with her from back then. And then in college the years I was single for the date we'd go out with mates the day after to buy chocolate and cheap beer and it was great.

"So yeah, I basically wanted to- I wanted to go buy chocolate today, and food, and- and do something, because I thought- Well, because I thought, you know what? You are the most important person in my life, the both of you are, and I wanted to do something to show you that. And she's still a kid and she won't even remember it, she'll just be excited about having chocolate, but it's still the thought what counts right? And I know you've got a sweet tooth you think no one knows about, which I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but I think even Lestrade knows about it. Mrs. Hudson and your brother both certainly do. So I bought chocolate and Angelo's and even Angelo's tiramisu, and I thought I'd remind you that, you know... You're important, I care, and- and all that."

John was decidedly looking everywhere but at him.

"And the gifts," he gestured, meaning the bag and box on the couch between them. "That's basically chocolate, but there's more, in the fridge and some upstairs, I bought different types and that. So it's chocolate, and... Well, you could read it, but it's basically- I- I extended my lease with Mrs. Hudson. For another two years. Which was the maximum she would allow. It's- It's basically a way of saying that- that I intend to stay here. With you. With us. Because I know this past years have been crazy, and I don't mean just the past four that I've been back here, I mean more like the past eight, with- with Moriarty and you jumping and you coming back and Mary and everything about Mary and then Rosie and- and then bringing Rosie here, and raising her here.

"It's been crazy, and it's nuts to think I've known you for ten years now, absolutely nuts, I must be certifiably crazy, and you too, seeing as we've stood by each other for this long. And it's been definitely the craziest ten years of my life but I wouldn't change a thing. Because I met you and you changed my life and then I had Rosie. And now we're here. And we are here and I'm happy and finally, for once in my life, I can somewhat picture my future. Or, what I want my future to be. And that's being here, with you, and raising Rosie, with you, and having tea with Mrs. H. gossiping about everyone, and Rosie growing up happy and healthy with good, happy influences around her, and working cases with you until my legs won't stand anymore, and having Saturday breakfast the three of us together, and hell, even Mycroft dropping by to be annoying and spending Christmas with your parents.

"And you're here for all that Sherlock, and we do this together. Because everything has been crazy but you're still the best person I've had the pleasure of meeting, and I wouldn't change you for the world, and I want you to know this, for real. That I'm here because I want to be, and I'm here to stay." He paused to take a breath, still not looking at him. "You've made it clear in the past that you don't mind us here, that you want us here. I wanted to give you a clear answer. And yes, Valentine's day is a stupid excuse, but I wanted chocolate and it is not romantic love, but I still love you. You're family Sherlock,  _ we _ are family. We're raising a child,  _ our  _ child together. We are a family. And I love you."

Sherlock, on the other hand, could not take his eyes away from him, no matter how much he wanted. His view was blurry and there were tears picking his eyes, and he wanted to turn away, to run away, to go hide in his room and never come out. But he couldn't. He couldn't turn away, he couldn't  _ look  _ away.

He could not allow himself to miss a single second of whatever John's face was doing right now.

It was indescribable. It was- It was raw. Whatever it was, it was raw emotion. He couldn't tell what emotions, clearly more than one, many more than one. Too many, too fast, doing too many things all at once. It was brilliant. Brilliant, beautiful, amazing, Sherlock didn't have the vocabulary to describe it, not in the seven languages he was fluent in, not in the other six he was conversational in, not in the other four he could understand and read to a basic level.

He must've made a noise, or he must've been silent too long, or something, he wasn't sure, but John turned suddenly. Their eyes met and Sherlock, for the first time in his life, wished he had a superpower. He wished he had the power to freeze time, because it wasn't physically possible for his mind to take all of John's eyes in at that moment. A picture, one would think, take a picture, but no- a picture wasn't alive, and those eyes were. They were the most alive thing he'd ever seen.

He was not one prone to philosophize, but in that moment, with those eyes, he was certain of John's realness. The whole  _ I think therefore I am _ , and  _ I can't know nothing is real except my own thought  _ and  _ The Matrix  _ (he'd seen it, of course, high and sneaking into the theater, but he'd seen it) thing, philosophical questions, no practical use and all that. Well. Sherlock knew, in this instant, in this time, that John, that those eyes, that was real. It was  _ real. _

Sadly, he could not stop time, and the moment passed, and the eyes changed, John's eyes were always changing, the talked for themselves being as expressive as John could never be. It didn't make them any less amazing, any less beautiful, but it wasn't the same. They weren't saying the same. And now Sherlock would never get to decipher what they were trying to tell him.

Now though, what they were telling him now, that he knew. He'd seen that expression on John before, countless times, and he hates every one. Fear. In John's eyes there was fear.

_ Fear. Basic emotion induced by a perceived danger or threat, _

His mind started running, background noise of information. That wasn't important. He knew what fear was. The important thing was why was there fear in John's eyes.

_ perceived threat; may occur in response to stimulus occuring in the present or in anticipation or expectation of a future threat perceived as a risk to oneself; irrational; anxiety; fear of the unknown; vulnerability, emotional vulnerability; _

That must be it. John showed emotional vulnerability, and he's experiencing anxiety and fear of the response.

Response. What to respond? Feeling. How to express one's feelings while not understanding them?

Feeling, feeling, feeling. John wants to stay, John is staying; John wants him to raise Rosie, wants him to be there, here. Relief. John loves him. John loves him and it's not romantic (and it's impliedly not sexual either). Relief. Happiness. Love? What is love?  _ (baby don't hurt me- no! Stop, focus.) _ How to recognize love?

_ Love encompasses a range of strong and positive emotional and mental states, from the most sublime virtue or good habit, the deepest interpersonal affection and to the simplest pleasure. _

Love. It fits. Love. He knows he loves John. He's known he loves John for a long time now. He can't identify love, nor is he sure how he knows, but he knows. He loves John. He needs, no. He wants John. He may not need him, but he wants him. He doesn't want to have to survive without John. He's done that already and he's rather not do it again. He wants John. He loves John.

Response. What to respond? How?

He looks down at his lap and at the box beside him. He grabs it, clearly containing chocolate, the bag some type of paper, maybe a note or document where John said he could read about the lease extension. Doesn't matter now. Chocolate. He feels John's eyes follow his hands. It's a fairly small box, black, not too fancy. Not too heavy, but considering it's chocolate, it's definitely stuffed. He struggles with the tape for a moment and feels like an idiot, but he's got a plan and can't stop now. When he finally pulls the box open, he has to pause for a moment.

It's a skull. It's a chocolate skull. John went out and bought him a chocolate skull to tell him he's important. Damnit, it's a really good gift. It's pretty and sentimental. He doesn't want to eat it, he wants to keep it forever. Talking about sentimental.

Picture. Of this he can take a picture. He feels for his phone in his pockets and remembers he's wearing pyjamas. Damn, he'll have to get up. Picture, he wants a picture. He places the box on the couch and gets up, glancing around the sitting room. He can't see his phone. Crap. John's phone. It's on his chair. It's basically like his phone. He uses both interchangeably. It's fine to use it for this, right? He'll text the picture to his phone later. He grabs the phone and returns to the couch, feeling John's eyes on him the whole time.

He unlocks the phone (his fingerprint is saved into it) and opens the camera app with one hand, without even looking, and with the other he grabs the box again. He aligns the phone and the box to have a good picture, moving a bit so there's better light from the window behind him. He snaps the photo. He locks the phone again and puts it down. He carefully takes the chocolate skull out of the box and brings it up to his face for closer inspection.

It's not an accurate real human skull, but it's clearly a skull nonetheless. It's smaller than a tennis ball, heavy like a golf one. He sniffs it. Raspberry. A raspberry stuffed chocolate skull. John Watson is brilliant.

He takes a bite. Hmm, it's good. It's really good. This is good chocolate, expensive. The raspberry filling doesn't feel too artificial, and it's not extremely sweet either. And the chocolate is good, dark chocolate. It's the perfect chocolate. It's really good. He opens his eyes. He didn't notice closing them. He looks at John.

"It's good. Really good." He smiles. "Try it?" He brings his hand up, to be in line with John's face. Something in John's face changes. He relaxes, his shoulders fall back. He leans forward and takes a bite of the chocolate, right out of Sherlock's hands.

His eyes close for a moment while he chews and swallows. He smiles as well and nods. "It is really good," he agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was a bit of a rollercoaster for me, I wrote it all in like 5 days for starters, and this is much longer than my usual works, so it was a bit of a lot, but then also I really liked the first 6k of this and then I got kinda stuck in the middle and my writing style kinda changed and it's noticeable and I'm not sure how I feel about the end result, but I like it I think.  
> I may write more and add what happens next but I feel like it was good enough as it was.
> 
> Also! pretty much all of the text in italics is paraphrased from Wikipedia because I wanted Sherlock's internal rants to make sense, unlike mine, lol.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and as always, you can find me on tumblr [here](https://thisisnotjuli.tumblr.com) on my personal blog and [here](https://fanishjuli.tumblr.com) on my fandoms blog!


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